Misadventures in Babysitting
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock and Molly babysit for John and Mary. Can they be trusted? Maybe not! Sherlolly


John and Mary Watson were looking forward to an adult night out. On their own. Date night! Whoppee! Since the birth of their daughter Claire two years ago they had never spent a night away from her. There had been, of course, the occasional evening out to a film or dinner, but always they had returned to their small flat and their smaller daughter. This was to be a special occasion, as it was Mary's birthday, and they had a room booked at a posh hotel in the center of London. The evening included tickets to a show in the West End, and dinner reservations at a nice restaurant. Perfection! The only fly in the ointment was, as usual, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was trying to be nice. He had been trying this a lot more since his return from the dead several years ago, and was actually succeeding well beyond anybody's expectations. Claire was his goddaughter, and he absolutely adored her. Knowing that it was Mary's birthday, his present had been to finance their rather expensive night on the town, while he volunteered to babysit. Sherlock had found that he really rather liked children, Claire especially. They tended to be far less judgemental than adults, and far less constricted by social norms. They were, in fact, a lot like himself. He also knew that John and Mary were hoping to have a second child, and harbored the thought that this romantic night out which he had provided would speed things along.

So it was that Sherlock and Claire sat playing together at 221B Baker Street awaiting the arrival of their babysitter. They were not disappointed.

"Hello, Sherlock, have you damaged her psyche enough yet?" Molly Hooper was laughing as she entered the flat.

"Dr. Hooper, you're almost late. We expected you about twenty minutes ago."

"Tube was delayed."

"Don't think I haven't noticed, Dr. Hooper, that everytime I offer to babysit, you show up. Does Mary think that I am that incapable of caring for the child?"

"Mary knows how brilliant you are, Sherlock, it's just that you're…"

"Yes…."

"Well, you're you, Sherlock!"

"She doesn't ask me to assist when you babysit, Molly. Why is that?"

"I don't forget to eat. I don't have a mind palace to get lost in. I don't do experiments on the child. I change nappies. Shall I go on?"

"It was one harmless experiment, but, you're right, nappies are not my favorite thing. Speaking of which…" he handed the toddler to her godmother.

In a short time Claire had the two intelligent adult babbling and rolling around on the floor with her, possibly happier than she was. Then Uncle Sherlock's mobile rang, and he made the mistake of answering it. The call was from DI Greg Lestrade asking for assistance on a case. Since the case peaked Sherlock's interest, he readily agreed, without really thinking the situation through.

"We have to go to a crime scene, Molly. Something interesting."

"What are we supposed to do with Claire, you git?"

"Take her along, of course. How much trouble can she be?"

"She's a two year old, Sherlock. Ever heard of the terrible twos? And it's a crime scene, for god's sake!" Molly tried to be his voice of sanity. "Besides, she'll get in the way."

"Nonsense. Just strap her to your chest with that thingy…"

"Not my chest, yours…"

"Why mine?"

"You're bigger. You can handle her weight better."

"But you're a woman…"

"The only time you ever notice that is when you're about to go all sexist on me. Well, just strap her on, mate, and let's get out of here if we're going!"

When they met Lestrade, Sherlock was carrying Claire on his back, wincing every time she kicked his ribs and yelled, "Go, pony!"

Lestrade was almost giggling, as he asked the child, "Do you do that to your daddy, honey?"

"Daddy's not a pony!"

Lestrade made a show of studying Sherlock's features, and mused, "Must be the long, horse face, then."

Molly tried to stifle a laugh as she stooped to examine the body. "Looks like multiple stab wounds, several of which would have been fatal." She walked around the body, taking in several other details and making notes. Sherlock stood off to the side, questioning Lestrade about the circumstances of the crime. But Claire calmly interrupted, saying sternly, "Mama will be mad."

Sherlock patted her leg just as it was about to make contact with his ribs once again. "No, Claire, we don't have to tell mama about this, do we?"

"But Mama will be mad. That man spilled catsup all over his shirt!" and, saying that, she pointed at the rather messy scene a short distance away. "He's sleeping. Why is he sleeping outside?"

"Freak!" The word hissed nastily from between Sgt. Sally Donovan's lips, as she stood next to the consulting detective.

"Freak is a bad word. Mama told me. I'm not a freak""

"Not you, sweetie," the policewoman sneered, then cocked her head to indicate Sherlock. "Your pony here." Her mirthless laugh was cut short by a yelp of pain as Claire reached over and poked her in the eye.

"Uncle Sher say to poke bad people in the eye because it hurts. Then run away. Go, pony!" She kicked the detective in the ribs once more, and this time he was happy to comply.

Molly had the corpse transported to St. Bart's morgue, so she could do a post mortem. The case wasn't nearly as intriguing a Sherlock had hoped, and was beginning to regret taking it on. It was readily apparent to the detective that this was a drug deal gone wrong, the victim being a dealer done in by a disgruntled customer. But Molly felt compelled to see it through.

The morgue was empty at that time of the evening. Despite the fact that it was well past her bedtime, Claire showed no sign of slowing down. Perhaps it was the excitement of new experiences. She was getting a trifle bored with riding her pony, and, to tell the truth, the pony was none too thrilled with equestrian technique. Molly unstrapped the child, and let her wander around for a short time.

As Sherlock had already put together most of the salient facts about the case, he had nothing better to do than watch Molly, and amuse Claire. Everytime Molly observed the pair, they were doing something that she was sure Claire's parents would not appreciate. Sherlock had inflated several latex gloves, and they were bouncing them around the lab. They looked like disembodied hands floating through the air. Then he found several different sized of plastic specimen buckets, the kind with lids. He lined them up in size order by size, and using eighteen inch long bullet probes, was soon trying to teach her a simple tune. Molly looked up again when she heard the child yell, "Yuck!", and noticed she was pointing in her direction. Maybe this wasn't a good idea at all.

"Aunt Molly's all messy!"

"Don't worry. We'll clean her up later," Sherlock said calmly, and went to look for further distractions.

Molly was a bit relieved by the quiet, until she heard the hum of a piece of equipment, and glanced over to see that Sherlock had activated one of the cadaver lifts, the one with the straps. He had somehow finagled the straps of Claire's baby carrier with the straps of the lift, and the child was delightedly riding up and down, in a very un-cadaver like manner. She had to laugh, at least while she had the chance, for Mary was sure to kill them both when she found out about this!

A short time later, she heard Sherlock approach and looked up to face him, asking quietly, "Where's the kid?" Sherlock gestured toward the sleeping child nestled comfortably within the strappy confines of the cadaver lift. "Maybe you should untangle her, and lay her down in my office. Her blankie is in the baby bag. You might want to change her nappie, too!"

"'Want' is rather a strong term, Molly. But since you seem to be up to your elbows in something almost as messy, I'll comply with your request." So he took himself off to deal with his godchild while Molly dealt with the corpse.

A short time later, as Molly was stitching up the victim's chest, she heard voices coming from her office, indicating that the child was once again awake. Sherlock headed out, looking for a bag of crisps from the vending machine, as Molly snapped the latex gloves from her hands. When the detective returned, he found the child wandering about the lab, as Molly gathered up their things in preparation for the trip back to Baker Street. He scooped Claire up in his arms, not wanting to repeat the pony experience, and the three of them headed for the door.

"Wait a moment. Where's your blankie, sweetie?" Molly asked, looking around the morgue.

"I gave it to the man."

"What man, luv?"

"In that cabinet. He was cold"

Sherlock rolled his eyes while Molly stifled a laugh. The pathologist went to retrieve the blanket, while the detective explained to the child in a kindly voice, "Not to worry, Claire, where that particular man is going is bound to very warm indeed." The child looked happy as she snuggled into his chest and closed her eyes.

Claire slept peacefully through the night in Uncle Sherlock's bed, accompanied by Aunt Molly. Uncle Sherlock passed a not so comfortable night on the couch, finally crawling into his own bed when it was vacated by the two females who were currently scavenging through the kitchen in search of breakfast. He had stocked in supplies, but was too grumpy to tell them. Let them find, and cook, them on their own! He did surrender to the inevitable, however, when the smell of coffee and bacon made its way down the hall. Joining them for a meal at his kitchen table, he looked from one face to the other, an overwhelming feeling of contentment seeping into his usually so discontented brain. He took in the easy manner with which Molly handled her godchild, the obvious affection and love they had for each other. Perhaps…

The happy little group was interrupted by an equally happy couple, arriving to retrieve the light of their life. The child squealed with joy as Mama and Daddy came through the door. Molly lifted her from her booster seat and handed her, somewhat regretfully, to her mother.

"Any problems?" Mary asked.

"NO!" Molly and Sherlock said in unison, which, of course caused Mary to look at them suspiciously, and John to roll his eyes.

"Do I want to know, Sherlock?" John queried.

"No, John, I think not."

"The man spilled catsup all over his shirt, mama! And he fell asleep outside!"

Mary narrowed her eyes and stared at Sherlock.

"But Aunt Molly fixed him!"

"How, luv?" John prompted his daughter.

"She cut off his shirt. Then she washed all the catsup off him. He didn't even wake up! Even when she put him in that funny cabinet."

"I told you that you didn't want to know, John."

Any other set of parents may have throttled them both, but these parents merely thanked them for taking such good care of their daughter, while trying to hold back their laughter, and left to return to their more mundane life. Molly went to the kitchen to clean up the breakfast things. Surprisingly Sherlock joined her.

"Well, we pulled that off rather successfully, didn't we?" Sherlock said cheerfully.

"Don't count on it, chum. As soon as they get the full story out of the little stool pigeon we'll probably get a bill for her extensive psychotherapy."

"Perhaps we should start a trust fund. We'll probably do more damage before we're through!"

"You're actually surprisingly good with kids, Sherlock. I'm impressed."

"I'm glad I finally impressed you, at least with something beside my intellect and my devastatingly good looks." He winked at her as he spoke.

"I've always been impressed with your brain, Sherlock. But your good looks are more than mitigated by you arrogance, egotism, selfishness…"

"I've reformed, Molly, remember?" He turned to study his pathologist, watching as she moved quietly about his kitchen confidently, seeming as if she belonged there. "Have you ever thought of having children? You'd be a wonderful mother."

"Of course I have, Sherlock. Most women do think about having kids. It just hasn't happened for me."

"You know, I think you'd make such a great mother that it would just about make up for me being such an inept father…"

"Sherlock, what…"

"I don't think we could screw them up that badly, do you, Molly? I mean all kids really need are parents who love them, and each other…"

"You've never said you loved me, Sherlock…"

"Well, technically speaking, you've never actually said you loved me, either. I guess I'm just hoping that I haven't killed off any residual affection you once had for me. You did, didn't you? Have some affection for me? Sometimes I misread things. I'm not good at these things…"

"You bloody arse!"

"Get it all out of your system now, Molly. You can't talk to me like that in front of the kids, you know!"

But since Molly was now speechless, Sherlock took the opportunity to snog her senseless. As soon as they broke for air, he started to drag her quickly down the hall towards his bedroom, saying as they fell onto the bed, and he showered kisses along her neck, her shoulders, her ears, and anyplace else he could reach, "We really ought to think about that psychotherapy trust fund, though. Crime scenes, morgue visits, exotic dancer landladies, Mycroft, for god's sake. Better safe than sorry."

But at the moment Molly felt very safe in his arms, and far from sorry!


End file.
